| 07/02/01 | Reverend |
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So I braved the recent heatwave and I set out yesterday in order to buy myself some new bass gear. Specifically, a four space SKB rack. After exhausting the local mom and pop music shops, I eventually ended up in one of those obscenely large guitar stores. The kind with warehouse-sized rooms reserved solely for microphone stands. I was accosted by at least half of their sales force before an incredibly nice man with one arm helped me find exactly what I was looking for. Besides the obvious "What in the hell is a one-armed man doing working in a guitar store?", and the even more obvious Def Leppard jokes, I didn't really think much of it. That was until he had to retrieve the box containing my rack from the storeroom. While racks, or at least empty racks, are not all that heavy (a little over twelve pounds), they're most certainly cumbersome (the dimensions on a 4 space SKB rack are 21 1/2" W x 22" D x 9 1/2" H), especially while in their factory boxes. And that's assuming that you have two arms. Anyway, I watched this guy sort of fumble from the back of the store with my box, sit it down, open it and attempt to remove the rack. It was obvious that he was having more than a little trouble, but I felt strange offering my help. I know a lot of them are all empowered and shit.. climbing mountains and the like, but how long can you watch a one-armed man fumble around with a package before it's OK to help him out? Is there some sort of one-armed-guy protocol you need to follow? I'd ask you all for advice, but I suppose that it's a moot point since I'm sure this sort of situation doesn't pop up much. Everybody's favorite teenage, female webmaster (that runs an advice column.. on this site) has decided to once again grace our respective asses with her special brand of vomit-inducing wisdom. Of course by "special", I mean it in the field trip to the crayon factory sense, if you catch my drift. Check it out here. There are also two new IM Funnies for you to waste a few minutes reading. One last note: My twenty-fourth birthday is rapidly approaching (December's only six months away), so please check out my wishlist! :) :) :) :P |
| 07/04/01 | Reverend |
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HAPPY FOURTH OF JULY YOU LAZY, BLOATED SACKS OF SHIT THIS IS WHAT AMERICA MEANS TO ME:  BIG TITTY BITCHES, TOTALLY DYKING IT OUT IN A POOL  CHEAP, NASTY BEER  TRUCKS SMASHING SHIT, LIKE LIBERALS AND EUROPEANS AMERICA FUCKING RULES I FUCKING HATE CANADA |
| 07/06/01 | Reverend |
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Samn from Robotskull, the only site on the Internet that updates less than this one, has posted the results of this years Second Apparently Not So Annual Camgirl Wishlist Who is the Greediest Camgirl Contest. The results may shock and amaze you. They will most definitely disgust and frighten you. Samn's little contest there always seems to garner it's fair share of controversy. Camgirls featured in the contest vainly try to reason their greed while pretending they don't give a flying fuck. Camgirls ignored in the contest, in typically schizophrenic female fashion, take every opportunity to defend and alternately bad mouth their peers. And the sad suckers that felt it was necessary to buy these spoiled shits $900 digital cameras drool all over themselves and fall out of their wheelchairs. Go check it out and see what all the fuss is about. One more time! For good measure! Since I've been pretty desperate for content lately, I'm going to revisit the companion piece I wrote for Robotskull last year; The forgotten camgirl wishlists. Villete's wishlist: Valtrex (for genital herpes) Bromelain (400mg) vitamin supplement (for Syphilis) Tetracycline or Doxycycline treatments (for Chlamydia) Penicillin shots (for Gonorrhea) Lipgloss Assassin's wishlist: A toothbrush (for shoving down throat in order to induce vomiting) Mop and bucket (for cleaning up own vomit) More Limp Bizkit records Pubic hair Eh.. and so on and so forth. Saturday afternoon I'll be bringing the rock at Hellfest in Syracuse, New York. For anyone that's interested, you'll be able to listen to the fest live, in streaming audio, by clicking here. We'll be playing the second stage at 6:05PM EST. |
| 07/08/01 | Reverend |
I saw this posted on a telephone pole about a block away from my apartment. Darrell, if you're reading this, you know what to do.
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| 07/10/01 | Reverend | ||
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Hey! It's time to dip into the old MALE SAC! Hahahahahahahahaha! Hahahahahahahahahaha! MALE SAC! Hahahahahahahahahahahaha!  Whoah! Speaking of male sacs, that is so totally a picture of my testicles! What an unholy conincidence! Anyway..
Now, I'm not the brightest tool in the shed (GET IT?), but I'm guessing that this means Mike would like us all to pay him and his site a little visit. Mike's a good enough guy, so I don't see why not. Stop by the new, improved Gyrate. Oh, and while you're there, ask him where the videos went. I can't find that shit anywhere. Hey! Two pieces of e-mail in a week! My Outlook is blowin' up!
You know you want to, piddledick. |
| 07/12/01 | Reverend | |
    
     No response. :'( |
| 07/20/01 | Reverend |
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Hahaha! MALE SAC! I don't care what you say, it's still funny. Sorry it's been so long since my last update. I've actually had this one done for quite some time, but I somehow managed to royally fuck up my PC a few days ago. I had to reformat and reinstall everything from scratch. Just about the only that that was saved was my MP3 collection (all seven gigs of it). I'm still pining over the loss of my massive porn collection. Oh, Vanessa Chase MPEGS, how I miss thee. I'm writing this with one of the fiercest hangovers I think I've ever had, so you'll have to bear with me. I also probably stink something fierce, but since you can't actually smell me (at least not yet), you're safe. So you should all know by now that I don't like to bore you with my lame personal stories, but I figured if I tell this one, I can sort of redeem myself. How? I have absolutely no idea. I guess it's like confessional or some shit. A few friends and I spent the night at our favorite goth hangout, Shampoo. It should go without saying that we got pretty drunk in the process. One of the first people I run into while I'm there is this girl my brother had tried to set me up with about a month ago. They came over to my place one night, we watched Office Space, drank some beer and they left. It was a fun night, but it was no big deal. Later that week, however, my brother tells me that I totally blew it by not talking to her enough. I argued it was a sort of awkward situation I was put in but whatever.. before this point, I was boycotting the opposite sex, so I wasn't too worried about it. Anyhow, cut to last night where I see this girl at the club and she's looking super cute. I didn't recognize her at first but she says "Hi" and some other inaudible bullshit. It's nearly impossible to hear her where we're standing and I'm so drunk at this point that if someone within a ten foot lit a cigarette I would have spontaneously combusted, so I mumble something inevitably embarrassing and I stumble off to find my friends. That's right. Not content with completely blowing it once, I had to make an ass out of myself all over again. Of course, if this had been it, my night would only be "embarrassing" rather than "morbidly embarrassing". Shit, I should be so lucky. At the end of the night, we're tearing up the dance floor as per usual when this hot blonde in a Rival Schools t-shirt comes and starts dancing with me. I thought she was fucking around and since I place girls just behind "alien abductions" and "flesh eating zombies" in the short list of things that scare the living fuck out of me, I quickly headed off for the bathroom. I come back only to find she's gone and my friends have taken to ridiculing me for being such a pantywaist. I'm sure I deserved all of it. My point in telling you all of this is not to brag about what an exciting life I lead, because nothing could be further from the truth. My point is to illustrate what a complete and total pathetic mess I am. I am twenty three years old and so incredibly retarded that I can't carry on a normal conversation with an attractive girl without pissing myself in fear. In my lifetime, I have asked exactly ONE girl out on a date and I was so wasted at the time that I was probably legally dead. It's probably not even accurate to say that I asked her out, rather about twenty or so White Russians asked her out. So, yeah.. brother's friend.. Rival Schools t-shirt girl.. while I realize that you will never, ever read this, if the unfortunate series of events that transpired last night were not all a triple sec induced figment of my imagination and you had even the slightest interest in ever talking to me, I am unbelievably sorry for being such a douche bag. I have my good points, I swear. Anyway, let's see what's going on in the news.. or at least what was going on in the news last week when I wrote this stupid thing: "A.J. McLean of the Backstreet Boys has entered rehabilitation for depression and alcohol abuse, forcing the group to postpone the rest of its U.S. and Canada tour dates." [ More ] As much as I'd love to believe that this is all a publicity stunt, I'm also pretty certain that the Agents of Satan currently handling publicity for the Backstreet Boys could probably do a little better than the tired "alcohol abuse" shtick. But then again, look at this guy. I don't think he's drinking anything that doesn't begin with "wine" and end with "spritzer".  Above: A.J. McLean of the Backstreet Boys and a close, personal friend. Not pictured: Drinks with tiny umbrellas and an assfull of hot cock. Of course, only a few hours after this story broke, the rest of the Backstreet Boys were on MTV crying their fucking eyes out. Well, there's one sure fire to improve that unfortunate "homosexual" image you've been burdened with. Listen, checking into rehab for "alcohol abuse" is not going to make these idiots look badass. Nothing short of killing a man just to watch him die will.. and even that's questionable. Rock stars of the seventies and eighties regularly drank their own weight in Jack Daniels. This guy has a sip of a Shirley Temple and he's checking himself into the Betty Ford Clinic. Someone needs to call Jimmy Page so he can come kick this pussy's ass. I think the only part of this story that I do believe is the depression bit. Granted, the Backstreet Boys are soulless fucks and represent all that is evil, but you know that deep down in the pit of their stomachs, past all of the semen, they don't like what they're doing. Honestly, how long can a man in his late twenties cater to mentally retarded ten year old girls before he fucking snaps? Apparently, it's not all that long. Early last week I picked up the latest Built to Spill record, "Ancient Melodies of the Future", and Christ Almighty if it wasn't the most puzzling record I've ever listened to. After listening all of the way through a few times, I knew that while I definitely did not dislike it, it just wasn't sitting right with me. It doesn't rock like "Perfect From Now On" does and I still definitely feel like it's a step in the wrong direction (a step in no direction at all would have been wonderful), but I've decided that I definitely do like it quite a bit. "Strange" and "The Weather" are two of the best songs Built to Spill has ever recorded. Though I'd probably, at least at this point in time, place "Ancient Melodies.." below all of their previous releases, I can definitely, in good conscience, recommend this record. However, if you've never been exposed to Built to Spill, this is probably not the best place to start. |
| 07/25/01 | Reverend | |
This is my four year old brother, Reptar: Reptar's actual, birth name is Ian, but if you address him by anything other than "Reptar" he will either ignore you or kick your candy ass. Most likely the latter. Anyway, I came home from work yesterday to a voicemail from my mom who informed me that Reptar was in the hospital. Apparently, sometime yesterday afternoon, Reptar and our two sisters, Alexandra and Nicole, were playing with Play-Do. For reasons unbeknownst to anyone that's not a four year old boy thoroughly convinced he's a dinosaur, Reptar decided to stick his entire head into the Play-Do. My mom attempted to clean the Play-Do off of my brother's face but somehow missed the giant wad of the stuff lodged up his nose. A few hours later, boom, the Play-Do dries up and Reptar's having trouble breathing. Since I'm quite positive that I never got anything, much less Play-Do, stuck in my nose when I was a kid, this was an entirely new experience for my mom who decided not to attempt to remove the obstruction herself and contacted the family doctor. The doctor suggested that my mom take Reptar to the hospital so that they could surgically remove the Play-Do from his nose. My mom took the good doctor's advice and Reptar was back home safely a few hours later. Now, I know that if Reptar were a little older, or could read, he'd probably be pretty pissed that I told the world he had to have Play-Do surgically removed from his nose. Actually, he'd probably just kick my ass. But I think that this is something to really be proud of. Something to pass down through the generations, you know? So here's to Reptar - King of the four year olds.
Since Monday morning, about 40 or so people have attempted to e-mail me that goddamned SirCam worm. And I've been e-mailed the thing at least five times by bohart@cox-internet.com, who definitely has my vote next election year for President of Stupid. Evidently, this thing roots through your temporary Internet directory looking for e-mail addresses or some shit. I'm not exactly sure how that works, but it sure as hell would make a lot of sense since none of you pricks ever e-mail me, so there's no way I'm in anyone's address book. Until the world gets their collective shit together, I've made it my duty to personally reply to everyone that's sent me the SirCam worm. So, if you've gotten an e-mail from me recently calling you a pituitary retard, you either attempted to send me a virus or you're Violet. I'll be back. In the meantime: Update your anti-virus software you dolts. |